The City of Lights
by Jada115
Summary: Chapters one and two. Alan and Denny go on vacation, Denny in Hawaii and Alan in Paris, with their respective women. Story focuses on Alan and Miranda. All BL characters belong to DE Kelley, all others mine. Romance. No slash/flash.
1. Chapter 1

The City of Lights

(The story of Alan's marriage (in chapter 2) comes from Alynwa's story "Cathy," with a little of my own stamp on it—because I liked it so much. And to ASuDC, who likes it on the balcony.)

Alan was relaxing on the balcony of his Parisian hotel, in an untucked white button up shirt and khaki pants. When Miranda had fallen asleep during the news, he decided to wait for Denny's call on the balcony. He prepared his scotch and cigar and looked out across the city, lost in his thoughts, when his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Denny Crane!" Denny sat on his balcony in his robe and pajamas, looking out across the beach.

Alan chuckled. "Hey, Denny."

"You got your cigar and scotch?"

"Yep."

"Me too."

"Isn't seven in the morning a little early for cigar and scotch?"

"But it isn't our special time without cigar and scotch."

"Granted. I'm not interrupting your time with Joan am I?"

"Nonsense. Flamingos first. Besides she's still asleep. She usually doesn't wake up until around nine anyway. Where's Miranda?"

"Taking a nap."

"You using that Bluetooth I got for you?"

"I am." Alan sipped his scotch.

"Aren't these Bluetooth things wonderful? I swear it's the best invention in the last twenty years. I can talk on the phone and still have both of my hands free for…whatever."

"Indeed," Alan chuckled. "But I would appreciate it if you keep your hands only on cigars or scotch."

Denny chuckled. "So what time is it there?" He puffed his cigar.

"Six."

"So what's your balcony like?"

"I'm in the heart of Paris, looking out on the Eiffel Tower in the sunset, the sounds of the street below me, the scent of restaurants mingling with the scent of a fresh spring rain and a cool breeze drifting over the city—and a beautiful woman curled up in my bed.

"Sounds nice…" he swirled his cigar in the air as he searched for the right phrase. "Except for the whole Paris thing…Frenchies, you know. Aren't they an Axis power?"

Alan chuckled. "Not yet. What about your balcony?" He took a deep draw on his cigar.

"Pure, unadulterated Hawaiian beach: white sands, clear waters, the sun rising over the ocean, warm weather—paradise, my friend, utter paradise! And Joan," he growled lewdly, "Hot Tamale Joan. She pumps my chubby let me tell you." He stuck his cigar between his teeth.

Alan chuckled. "Good Lord, Denny," he said, releasing his smoke.

"So what did you do today?"

"We went to see the Palace at Versailles."

"Boring."

"That's a matter of perspective I think. I had a very nice time. So what are your plans for today?"

"Deep sea fishing!" Denny moved to the edge of his seat. "The whole day on the water; it's going to be great. Someday, I'll take you."

"No thank you. I'll take Versailles any day." Alan sipped his scotch.

Miranda stretched her arm out across the bed. Alan's place was empty. She lifted her head, sleepily. "Alan?" She sat up, head groggy. She slid out of bed. She looked around the room. One day and it was already wrecked with discarded clothes and remnants of food on room service trays. She picked up one of Alan's t-shirts crumpled in the floor and put it on. His spicy-sweet scent wafted up to her from the shirt. She flipped her dark hair from under the shirt and stepped toward the balcony. She peeked out the door to see the back of Alan's head and a stream of cigar smoke swirling around him.

"What are you talking about?" Denny said.

"I get sea sick and the thought of sticking my hand in the bucket of slimy chum." He rolled his eyes and grimaced in disgust. "Not exactly my cup of tea, Denny."

Miranda opened the door and stepped out on the balcony. Alan turned to look at her. He ran his eyes over her disheveled hair and her bare legs peeking out from under his rumpled t-shirt. She never looked better, he thought. She stood close to him and ran her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes, his head getting a little light. He trailed his hand up the back of her leg.

"I bet Miranda would like to go deep sea fishing; she's less of a girl than you are," Denny said. "I'll take her. You can sit on the shore and sip your cup of tea." He sat back in his chair.

Alan chuckled. "She probably would." He looked up at her. She smiled down at him and placed a kiss on his forehead. She turned and went back into the room with a glance over her shoulder at him. He turned in his seat to watch her. "So tell me Denny, does Joan like deep sea fishing?" he asked Denny.

She blew Alan a kiss and stepped inside, closing the door quietly.

The line went quiet for a moment. Denny said, bewildered, "I don't know."

Alan laughed. "Don't you think you should have asked her?" He sipped his scotch.

"Nah!" Denny said, gnawing his cigar. "She'll be all right."

"I'm not sure, Denny," Alan said amused. "Joan doesn't exactly strike me as the type of woman who would enjoy handling chum."

"Well, if she doesn't like it, I've got something else she can handle."

"Good God, Denny," Alan laughed.

"That's what she said last night."

Alan shook his head, looking up at the sky as he puffed his cigar.

"Let me ask you something Alan, did you see that ridiculous game last night?"

Alan removed the cigar from his mouth and released his smoke. "We don't get American baseball here, Denny."

"I'm about to give up on the Sox. I've had it, Alan."

"What happened?"

"They lost—again! To the Tampa Bay Devil Rays." He sat on the edge of his seat. "When I get back to Boston I'm going to sue Terry Francona."

"I don't know if there's any case law that would support lawsuits against a team manager just because the team loses games." Alan sipped his scotch.

"Still there's got to be _something_, Alan. I can't stand all this losing." Denny

"You could always switch teams."

"Never! That would be like turning my back on America and going off to be Candanian or something." Denny waved his cigar in the air fervently.

"Or French." Alan said calmly.

"Even worse."

Alan chuckled. "I miss you, Denny."

"But I'm right here."

"Still…it's just not the same."

"We'll be back in Boston soon enough, my friend and then we're going to find a way to get Francona."

* * *

After his conversation with Denny, Alan returned to the room to find Miranda lying on her stomach on the bed, reading a book. She was still in his t-shirt and her panties.

Alan sauntered over to her and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her back. "What are you reading?"

"Biography of Napoleon."

"How appropriate."

"I thought so." She turned a page. "He's an _incredibly_ fascinating man—second only to you." She glanced up at him, grinning.

He chuckled. "Flattery will get you everywhere with me; though I never really considered myself in the company of tyrants."

She rolled her eyes. "You're putting words in my mouth. I don't mean it that way and you know it." She rolled over on her side, facing him. "This is the third time I've read this book, but I learn something new about him every time." She shook her head. "Simply fascinating."

"How so?" He placed his hand on her hip.

"The vigor, the intellect, the courage, the audacity, the tenacity—all those wonderful adjectives. He was…completely fearless…an absolute _force_ to be reckoned with. How does one person gain so much power? I can't even imagine that level of power; it's unfathomable."

"You sound rather…_fervent_…in your appreciation of Napoleon."

She shrugged and said with a sigh. "I suppose I just can't help myself." She placed her bookmark and shut her book. She sat up on the bed, cross legged. "Did you have a good conversation with Denny?"

"I did."

"I assume he's doing well."

"He is. He's taking Joan, much without her knowledge, deep sea fishing today."

She chuckled. "Poor Joan. She doesn't really seem like the fishing type what with her finely manicured nails and diamond rings. I like her, but she strikes me as rather…prissy."

"That's what I said. Denny seems to think _you'd_ like it though."

"I do. My father and I used to go every summer."

"You're close to your father, aren't you?"

She smiled wanly and glanced down at the down comforter. "I was."

"_Was_?"

"He's no longer…" She pursed her lips.

He frowned. "I see," he said gravely. "I'm sorry." He paused and ran his hand over her upper back. He looked at her but his eyes were distant. "I've often wondered what it would be like to be…close…with a father. I have to admit I envy you that."

She edged closer to him and put her hands on his thigh. "So do you want to go out for dinner or should we get room service?"

He looked at her tenderly. "You go from your dead father to supper…just like that?"

She said matter of factly, "Yes…just like that. It's called deflecting. And I'm hungry. I want to eat."

He looked at her quizzically and nodded. "Understood. Then let's go out. How about you get dressed and I'll call the concierge about potential restaurants?"

"Let's do semi-casual."

"Very well."

"Give me thirty minutes." She kissed his cheek and jumped up. She pulled some clothes out of her side of the closet and disappeared into the bathroom.

After he hung up with the concierge, Alan tucked in his shirt and donned a blazer. He sat on the edge of the bed concentrating on the local news while he waited for Miranda.

She soon emerged in a black wrap dress, knee-length, and peep-toe slings. She left her hair long and straight and her makeup natural. He stood when she walked in, her perfume wafted around him. He sniffed the air. She grabbed a Pashmina shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. He lifted her hair out from under it and smoothed it down for her. They caught the elevator to the first floor and stepped out into the city. The air was crisp, damp. Cars swished along the wet streets and pedestrians stepped around puddles. The sun had already set and the city was lit up with a variety of lights from lamp posts, buildings, street lights, neon signs and cars.

Alan said, "The concierge recommended a place just a couple blocks from here—across the street."

She took his hand and they waited for the crossing light. When it turned they dashed across the street and walked toward their destination. They soon arrived at a small, dimly lit restaurant.

They ordered their meal and wine. They ate quietly until Alan broke the silence.

Alan said, "You seem quiet this evening. Is something wrong?"

"No," she smiled, shaking her head. "Why?"

"I don't know when I asked about your father…" He wavered.

"I don't really want to talk about it."

"Fine." He pursued his dinner quietly.

But Miranda picked up on something in his tone that indicated it wasn't really fine. She knew he wouldn't pry, he was too considerate for that, but she also knew that he really wasn't okay with it either. She leaned back in her chair and picked up her wine glass, pensively putting her lips to the rim, but not actually drinking. What would be the harm in telling him? But then she didn't really want to cast a pall over dinner, possibly the whole trip. He would need to know someday right? And isn't this what they came here for—intimacy, getting to know each other better? She rolled her eyes and sat up. She told herself, Okay here goes:

She launched into her story in a very matter of fact manner. "My father and I were extremely close. I was the boy he never had, but I was also the daughter he cherished."

He gazed at her steadily, directing his full focus on her—something she found both titillating and unnerving.

"We did all the typical father-son things together: fishing, shooting guns, smoking cigars, camping, sports—all that stuff. But I was also his "baby girl"—coddled, spoiled, put on a pedestal. Boys who wanted to date me were terrified of him. He was a lot like Denny—boisterous, mischievous, fun. I've told you I was a military brat…"

"Yes."

"He was an officer in Desert Storm. He didn't want to go, but he did his duty." She paused and sipped her wine, looking into her glass.

"Was he killed in battle?"

She smiled bitterly. "Hardly—though he may as well have been."

"He was a leader of a not-too-well-known battalion that was ordered to massacre thousand of unarmed, Iraqi troops as they surrendered to US Forces. But it wasn't just soldiers. There were civilians, including women and children in the fray."

"Dear God," he said hoarsely.

"Later they used tanks outfitted with plows to bury alive Iraqi troops with sand as they sat in their trenches—buried _alive_ Alan. Can you possibly imagine?"

He stared at her horrified. "No."

"He came home he was a shell of a man—a ghost. He wasn't the same. The nightmares…he had them both day and night. He couldn't escape the screaming voices, pleading, crying—the images of unarmed people, waving white flags, slaughtered before his eyes by machine guns on the ground and in helicopters. Much worse was the extreme soul-shattering guilt and shame." She sighed deeply.

He frowned, deeply moved, shaking his head. He took a drink of his wine.

She continued. "So when he could no longer endure the voices, the nightmares, the images and the medications that could not erase those things, one summer day he walked out across our yard to this giant oak tree that stands at the back of our property, sat down underneath it, pulled out his service pistol and…" Her eyes grew cold, distant.

He frowned, swallowed hard and reached across the table to squeeze her hand.

"You can imagine the rest," she said quietly. She dropped her eyes, lifted her wine glass and down the rest of her wine. "I was the one to find him."

Alan's eyes had grown moist. "I'm sorry, Miranda. I had no idea." His voice quivered.

"Of course you didn't." She sighed deeply, refilling her wine glass. She leaned back in her chair, running her hands through her hair and added flippantly. "I suppose that answers a lot of questions you might have had about me, right?"

"It's…horrific."

"It happens more often in our country than people care to recognize, Alan. Our troops, regardless of how much moral support we give them, come back tattered and fractured versions of themselves—if they come back at all. My father came back in body, but the man I knew and loved never came back. And that, I fear, is the norm for troops who have seen battle—and their families."

He shook his head disappointedly. "Yet another reason to despise war."

"_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_, right?"

"The 'great lie," he said, looking into his wine. "I believe Wilfred Owen had it right." He lifted his glass to his lips.

She sighed again, downed her wine and locked eyes with him. "So now you know and I don't really like talking about it. I've done my time—lots of therapy and medication of both the prescribed and self-prescribed sort. I've reached a place where I've been able to…move on. Forgive me for casting a pall over dinner."

"Nothing to forgive."

She smiled half-heartedly and leaned on the table, "That's in part why I like Denny so much. He's a lot like him, my dad—though a bit more…" She searched for the right word. "…exuberant," she said carefully.

Alan frowned and worked his jaw, searching for the right words. "Thank you for telling me, Miranda. It couldn't have been easy." He squeezed her hand again.

She nodded contemplatively, watching the candlelight flicker. "Did you know Napoleon loved to take long baths? During his exile he sometimes took as many as three baths a day. Sometimes a bath could last several hours and during this time he would often he would read books or just sit and think."

Alan tightened his jaw then looked at her tenderly. "I did not know that."

"I'm a big fan of baths," she said looking at him. "There's nothing I like better sometimes than to just sit in a tub full of hot water with a book. It's one of the great pleasures in life, as simple as it is."

"Yes," he said somberly, looking at the table.

She leaned over the table and said in a low voice. "Alan, I won't tolerate your or anyone else's pity. So…" She sat up and poured another glass of wine and topped off Alan's glass. "Let's move on." She added in a mock bright voice, "We'll get dessert—something chocolate and then let's go to the Moulin Rouge; it will be silly, kitschy." She hailed the server. "_Soufflé au chocolate…deux… s'il vous plait. Merci_." She looked at Alan, smiling, though her eyes filled with pain. "I'd like to offer a toast." She held up her glass. "To moving on."

He touched his glass to hers and smiled half-heartedly. "To moving on."

They chatted idly about Denny and Joan until the dessert arrived.

Alan took one bite of his soufflé then pushed it away.

Miranda took a bite and moaned sensuously. "This is the best…it's almost…orgasmic." She took another bite.

He blinked, raising his eyebrows.

"You aren't going to eat yours?"

"No."

She took a bite from his plate. "No sense in wasting it."

He watched her enjoy her dessert, and his, with vigor. He ordered a scotch, needing something stronger than wine.

After finishing both desserts she leaned back in her chair, head swimming in wine and said, "I feel tons better now. Ready to go to the Moulin Rouge?"

He smiled sadly. "Let's go."

After the show, and a stroll through the _Quartier Pigalle_, Alan and Miranda returned to their hotel room. She ordered a bottle of wine from room service and immediately left her clothes in a puddle on the floor. She rummaged around in her dresser drawer and pulled out a nightie. She put it on and threw her plush terry robe from the hotel over it. She took off her jewelry and tried to take off her shoes, but she lost her balance and fell back on the bed, giggling.

A crooked smile crossed Alan's face. "I think you may be drunk." He tossed the room keycard on the dresser and removed his blazer, flinging it in a nearby chair.

"No, just…swirly."

He chuckled. "Do you need help with the shoes?"

"Maybe," she sighed, relaxing into the bed, enjoying the spinning sensation she felt when she closed her eyes. "The women at the Moulin Rouge were beautiful weren't they?"

"They were."

"I just loved the sparkly costumes—all the feathers."

"Yes." Alan sat on the edge of the bed and carefully removed each shoe, setting them on the floor near the bed.

"Thank you," she cooed.

Alan changed into his pajama bottoms and his t-shirt, which still had a little of her scent on it.

She knelt in the bed. "Alan, tonight I want you to…ravage me." She giggled, releasing the belt on her robe and pulling it off. Her nightie was on backwards.

Alan chuckled, shaking his head. "Hold up your arms." She held up her arms and he pulled up the nightie and adjusted it for her. He threaded her arms through the thin silk straps and pulled it down over her. "There."

With amusement in his eyes, he smoothed her hair back, kissed her forehead tenderly and looked deep into her eyes. "Miranda, that is an _incredibly_ appealing offer, and I assure you, any other night I would be more than happy to…accommodate you."

"Talkie, talkie, talkie…" she whispered, her eyes half closed. "No more talkie."

He laughed. "No more talkie? Very well…" He got in bed and crawled under the covers. "I will stop talking and will take you to bed. Come here." He motioned for her. She crawled toward him. He held the covers up for her and she snuggled underneath. He lay down on his side and patted the bed. "Let's spoon with me." She pressed her back into his belly and laid her head on the pillow. Alan propped himself on one arm and stroked her hair until she fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

City of Lights, Chapter II

The next evening Alan and Miranda sat on the balcony of their Parisian hotel room in white terry robes, sipping merlot, looking up at the few stars that could be seen through the clouds of the midnight sky. Miranda was wrapped in a blanket as well to shelter herself against the light, cool breeze drifting over them. She offered to share, but Alan declined. They sat several floors above the traffic and could see the lighted Eiffel Tower in the distance. The whole city seemed to be lit up.

"Have you had your balcony phone call with Denny today?" she asked wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders, pulling her feet up under her in the chaise lounge.

"I have." He puffed his cigar, stared out at the cityscape. He looked at her. "Why?"

"I was just wondering. I don't remember you doing it. I didn't want you to forget."

"You were sleeping off your hangover and then getting dressed for dinner."

"Oh," she nodded. "I hope I didn't spoil things for you last night."

"Quite the contrary. You were most…entertaining."

"Do I really want to know just how entertaining I was?" She looked at him, suspiciously. "Why are you smiling at me like the cat that ate the canary?"

"I'm not sure if you want to know, but I would be happy to tell you if you do."

She closed her eyes and put her hand to her head. "We went to the _Quartier Pigalle_ didn't we?"

"We did—at your insistence. We saw the Moulin Rouge."

She gasped and threw her hands over her mouth. "And a peep show at the Sexodrome."

"Yes. Quite informative, I might add."

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "I don't want to know any more. If I've blocked it out of my memory, I'm sure there's a good reason for it."

"Don't worry. I didn't let you do anything you might regret the next day. Besides I don't like the idea of sharing you with other people."

She smiled sarcastically. "Sharing me with other people?" She looked to the side, thinking.

"The man was certainly up for it, I think, but his significant other didn't seem to like the idea—though I think after a few drinks she might have come around."

"Was the idea _my_ idea?"

"It was."

"Oh God," she said weakly, closing her eyes.

"But if it's any consolation, I gave them our contact information in case they'd like to try when you're sober."

She scrutinized him, reading his face. "You did not."

"You're right, I didn't," he said with a satisfied grin.

"You're funny. Funny guy."

He smiled. "I do my best."

"Are you teasing me or did I really…"

"You did." He nodded.

"I was just…"

"Upset and drunk—a rather powerful mix for self-destructive behavior. I understand completely and harbor no ill will. Like I said, I found it all," he chuckled, "_very_ entertaining."

She released an exasperated sigh. "New topic, please. So, I guess Denny and Joan are having a great time?" She sipped her wine, looking at him.

"They are. They're going zip-lining today." He looked at his watch. "It's about noon there, so I imagine he's in the thick of it now."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Did he say how the fishing trip went?"

"Joan got sea sick and spent the whole time vomiting over the edge of the boat."

"Oh no!" Miranda gasped. "I feel sorry for her."

"Me too. I've been sea sick. It's the worst feeling _ever_."

"Zip-lining, huh?"

"Yes." He puffed his cigar.

"Wow. I want to have that kind of spunk when I'm his age."

"I don't have that kind of spunk at _my_ age," Alan said, rolling his cigars between his fingers, casting a lazy glance at her.

"You've got plenty of spunk…" she said. "It's just…of a different sort."

He laughed. "You don't have to cater to any perceived insecurities, Miranda. I know what I am."

She laid her head back on the chaise lounge and stared up at the sky, disappointed by the view. "It looks like it might rain again."

Alan looked up at the sky and the sparse stars dotting the grayness that should have been black were it not for the city lights. "Perhaps we should have stayed outside of the city. Then we could actually see the stars better."

"This is fine. We can imagine there are more." She swirled her wine in her glass then took a deep sip. "Have you ever seen the stars from a mountaintop?"

"No," he said quietly.

"It's one of the most majestic sights you could encounter—makes you feel your smallness, your insignificance. In college, some friends and I went camping in the Southern Rockies for spring break."

"Really?" He turned a look of mild surprise to her. "No topless sunbathing in Florida or Jamaica on spring break?"

"No. Wasn't my style."

"Too bad. I had my mind prepared for a host of new, vividly degenerate, fantasies in warmer climes. So why was the stereotypical spring break spot not your style?"

"Precisely because it was stereotypical and because there were too many people. I don't like massive crowds." She sipped her wine then laid her head back again.

He took a long drag on his cigar. When he released his smoke, he said. "I'm intrigued as to why you preferred the Rockies to some warmer locale where you could remove layers of clothing."

"Oh, I still removed layers of clothing."

"I'm listening," he said smoothly.

"My group of friends liked to go camping. We were a bohemian, hippie lot."

He chuckled lightly and gazed up at the sky, resting his arms on the arm rests, smoke lilting from his cigar, wafting toward Miranda. "Oh to have known you in college—the fun we might have had."

"Who's to say we can't still have that fun?" She looked at him questioningly.

"I'm not in good enough shape."

She chuckled. "Sure you are."

"Just finish your story."

"I remember there was always still a little snow on the ground. At night, when everyone else was asleep, I'd step out of the tent just to see the stars. We weren't really that far up in the mountains, so I could just imagine what it would look like from Mt. Everest. There were so many—so many more than you can see on clear night in Boston from Denny's balcony. I could hardly see the blackness of the sky for all the stars—and they were _incredibly_ bright. It was as if I could reach up and pluck one from the sky. One of the most breath-taking experiences…" she trailed off into her mind.

"Sounds lovely." He sipped his wine, pensively.

"I wish I had better words to describe it. There are some things that words actually impair; this is one of them—words can't come close to describing the splendor."

"I'd really like to see that, in spite of my detestation of nature."

She rolled her head to look over at him. "Just when I think you're a romantic you surprise me."

"How so?" He looked at her.

"A true romantic is supposed to love nature."

He lifted his head to speak to her. "I do love it…as an ideal, as a cause—just not so much in practice and application."

"As long as it's hemmed in by civilization, right?"

"Precisely! See, you get it."

She laughed. "I wonder if I can change that perception of yours—convert you into a nature lover?"

"Denny's already tried."

She leaned on her arm rest, gazing at him coyly. "Yes, but I have a very different type of persuasive power that might actually coax a different outlook."

He drifted his eyes over her, smirking. "In-deed." He raised his eyebrows. "And while I doubt your ability to even _partially_ convert me to a nature-loving camper… person… thing…I do highly encourage you to use…_all_ your powers of persuasion." He smiled, brightly, and a little sarcastically.

She laughed.

He laid his head back, cigar jutting from his mouth. "So tell me were these camping trips co-ed?"

"Most of them. There were a few that weren't."

"Those are the ones I'd like to hear more about—those girls only trips."

She smiled mischievously. "Some other day."

"Oh dear God," he laughed looking up at the sky. "Your literature professor and now this…" He put the cigar back in his mouth and shook his head. He turned to her. "You're teasing me, aren't you? Because you think it's a fantasy…" He said accusingly.

"I'm not teasing you," she smiled innocently, shaking her head. She held up two fingers. "Scout's honor."

"Denny's right. You may be the death of me." He sipped his wine.

She laughed.

"And what did you do besides sleep in a tent in the woods—and for that matter—what else is there for_ anyone_ to do when they camp?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. For us there was lots of alcohol, a significant amount of pot, and lots of s'mores…"

"On old-fashioned graham crackers?"

She scoffed playfully. "Of course."

"I love s'mores."

"Who doesn't? Maybe room service could bring us some. How do you say s'mores in French?"

He laughed. "I'm serious, by the way, what on earth is so appealing about camping? It just doesn't seem like that much fun with the dirt and the…bugs…and…animals…and all the …nature." He grimaced.

"Getting close to nature, feeling the earth beneath your feet, feeling the disconnect from the modern world, exploring the more primitive elements of our humanity—that's the attraction for me."

"None of that sounds even remotely appealing."

"Those were good times," she mused. "We would ride horses to the camp site, set up camp, start a fire, eat stew made over a fire, get drunk, have snowball fights—a few of them were naked; needless to say those didn't last very long," she laughed.

He laughed. "Naked snowball fights?"

"Yes—well mostly naked. We kept our hats and boots on. They were usually the result of a dare and way too much alcohol. Of course we would always aim the snowballs at each other's genitals—scored extra points for that."

"Naturally."

"I tell you, Alan, you haven't lived until you've been pelted in the groin by a snow ball."

He laughed. "I'll keep that one on the backburner."

"And then in the wee hours of the morning we'd smoke some pot and retire to our respective tents to warm ourselves with other…primal activities—and usually wake up with bruises in various spots because making love on the cold hard ground is a bit sadistic."

"Didn't you have sleeping bags?"

"Sure, but there's not much cushioning there. We'd go in the summer too and camp closer to the lake, go night time skinny dipping."

They sat silently for a few moments, sipping their wine.

He broke the silence with a loud chuckle.

"What?"

"Just imagining being a part of one of your spring breaks. Naked snowball fights. I imagine you were a lot of fun in those days."

"I'm a lot of fun now."

"Touché."

"And back then I was a lot of fun too—most of the time—but I was also incredibly moody and quiet much of the time too."

They fell into another silence, the sounds of the traffic below rising up to them, the breeze toying with their hair.

She reached over and took his hand. "Thank you for bringing me here, Alan. I've had a wonderful time."

"You're welcome," he said, smiling warmly at her.

"I can't believe it's almost our last night here—one more after this. I wish it didn't have to end."

"As do I."

"Whatever," she said playfully. "You're ready to get back to Denny."

"I admit I am, but that doesn't negate the fact that I wish our trip didn't have to end. I've had an incredible time with you." He paused for a moment then said, sipping his wine, "What was your favorite part?"

"The visit to Versailles, definitely—the grandeur, the opulence, the history, the beauty. I really liked the gardens. What about you?"

"Versailles was good, but I think I really enjoyed our first day here the most."

"Really? We didn't do much."

"We did plenty. We spent most of the day in bed snuggling, talking…making love. Then we went for a long, relaxing lunch in the middle of afternoon at that small café." He made small circles on her palm with his fingers. "Then we walked along the Seine at sunset, had dinner at that little out of the way restaurant."

"The Indian restaurant. Did you like that place?"

"I did. Didn't you?"

"It was okay. I like the one we go to in Boston better, I think."

"Then we spent a couple hours at that jazz club, danced, listened to music."

"Oh yes. _Le Caveau des Oubliettes_. It was amazing, though perhaps a little morbid."

"It was; but art, death and sex—along with their respective emotions—have always been closely related. I can't think of a more fitting place for a jazz club than a retired dungeon." He stopped to let his mind wander for a moment, sipping his wine. Then he added, "The best part was when it rained on us on the way back to the hotel." He looked at her and said, "And don't you just _love_ kissing in the rain?"

"I do—as cliché as it may be."

"Then we came back to the hotel, cold and wet, and went back to bed to get warm. I call it a perfect day."

"I think after listening to you, I have to say the same thing. Versailles pales in comparison." She smiled tenderly at him and squeezed his hand. She studied him for a moment then sipped her wine and looked out across the city pensively. At last she asked, "Why did you really bring me to Paris?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I lost the bet and, in spite of any guilt you might have felt, I don't think it was dreadful enough for you to renege on the terms of the bet. So what's really going on?"

He faltered. "I… realized I needed a break….thought it would be a good…opportunity."

"Hm." She cocked an eyebrow. "Try again. I don't believe that either. You haven't had a vacation in two years and prior to that how long had it been?"

"I'm not sure." He said flatly.

"Additionally, you get how many weeks of paid vacation at the firm?"

"Four."

"And in the years you've been there, how many times have you taken all four weeks of vacation?"

"Never."

"So now, all of a sudden, you're going to take a break? It's not to say that I don't appreciate it, because I really do, but I'd just like to know the real reason."

He chuckled anxiously. "An astute…observation and cross examination, counselor. Have I ever told you that you'd make a hell of an attorney?"

She sipped her wine, watching him over her glass. "Now you're deflecting, Mr. Shore. Just answer the question," she teased.

"If you ever decide to go to law school, I hope we end up working for the same side." He sipped his wine.

"So? What's really going on, Alan?"

He dithered. "Do you really want the truth?"

"I do," she nodded, seriously.

He scrutinized her for a moment then shook his head vigorously. "Oh, no! I've been down that road before."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're baiting me so that you can…"

"Baiting you? I'm baffled…"

He rolled his eyes and emphasized his words with his hand. "Women have told me before that they want the truth. Then when I tell them the truth, they get angry. And I'm not falling for that again." He shook his head, putting his cigar in his mouth.

"After all this time…." She put her head back against the chair.

"What?"

"After all this time, you still haven't learned that I am _not_ most women. How about you try the truth on me in all its ugly, gritty detail? If I get angry then you have my permission to lie to protect me and our relationship—from now on."

He scoffed a laugh. "That's an…interesting…deal." He frowned and set his jaw, studying her. "I don't know," he said slowly.

She looked at him, a glint of challenge in her eye. "Are you game?"

He narrowed his eyes at her.

She winked at him.

"All right then: Yes."

"So let's have it Alan."

"Very well. The last time I was here was for my honeymoon with my late wife."

"Are you serious?"

"I am," he said somberly.

"So let me get this straight…"

"See there it is, right there," he pointed. "You're getting angry."

"No, no." She held up her hand, shaking her head. "Let me finish. I want to make sure I understand you. You're telling me that you have brought your current girlfriend to your old honeymoon spot." She paused, struggling for the right words. "In order, I suppose, to… recapture some old memories?"

"It's not so much to recapture or to relive as to…reconcile."

"That's just a matter of semantics."

"Semantics is everything." He thought for a moment. "It's like when you're in college and you decorate your apartment with Zeppelin and Dylan posters, beer steins, tie-dyed curtains, and the plastic green beaded necklaces you scored from a girl at a St. Patrick's day party at the local pub."

"Okay."

"And so these things remind you of glorious golden days, each thing attached to a particular memory that you cherish and never want to lose. But then one day, and you never plan for it, but it's usually around age 25 or so, you wake up and realize that it's time to move into a new phase in your life; it's time to move on. You get tired of having your mattress on the floor and you get embarrassed about your girlfriend seeing the tattered Cat Woman poster hung with tape on the wall above your bed." He splayed his fingers in the air, held it for a moment and dropped it to the chair arm.

"Cat Woman, huh?" she teased.

He shrugged. "There's a story behind it."

"I'm sure there is—that's a story I'd like to hear someday."

"Sure—when I get to hear about the girls only camping trips."

She laughed. "Deal. So please, continue."

"And so you take down the posters and the beer steins and the tie-dyed curtains and you pack them away carefully, nestling each cherished memory in a safe place. Then on those rare occasions when you're feeling nostalgic, you might take out a bottle of wine and go through the box. But for the most part, you don't really see them or think about them much. But knowing that they're there, packed away, taken care of, is some sort of assurance. In that way you become reconciled with your past so that you can move forward and enter into a new…golden age." He looked at her earnestly and squeezed her hand.

Miranda's eyes grew moist. She swallowed hard and looked down at her feet.

"So you see, I came here, in some ways, to safely pack away the memories I most cherish so that I can…"

"Move into a new phase."

"Yes. I don't expect or even _want_ to replace those memories with the new ones I'm making this week—that isn't possible; it's two completely different universes. Nor am I reliving those old days; again, it isn't possible—you are so very different from her—like night and day. So I've come to reconcile."

Miranda toyed with the edge of the blanket. "What was her name?"

"Catherine, Cathy."

"What was she like?"

He looked up at the sky. "She was…passionate, creative, serious-minded…most of the time…but she had a great sense of humor too..." He trailed off. "But I'm suddenly struck by the fact that…and not to diminish her memory or character…I seem to laugh more with you. You're so funny and the things you say sometimes…" He shook his head. "In that respect you're much like Denny." He looked out at the city. "She was musical and had a beautiful clavicle." He motioned just above his own clavicle. "And…a healthy lack of sexual inhibition."

"She sounds a lot like you."

"I never thought of it that way." He chuckled musingly. "But I suppose in many ways we were a lot alike—we both enjoyed our work, maybe too much, since we were both trying to make a name and reputation for ourselves in our respective careers. We often found it difficult to make time for one another, relax, have fun."

"What did she look like?"

"She had long, medium brown hair—not as long or as dark as yours—large serious brown eyes, average height, average build. She played the cello."

"The cello?" Miranda gasped. "Oh, that's my favorite instrument; it's so…sensual."

He smiled wanly at her.

"I like her already."

"She was a wonderful musician." He stared out across the city. "She worked side jobs, teaching lessons and so on because she hadn't landed a full-time orchestra position yet. I was working my way up in my firm. We worked to save every penny we could; we even cut corners on the wedding costs, because she wanted to come to Paris for our honeymoon." He sipped his wine. He reflected for a moment then scoffed a laugh, "And when we got here, she didn't like it."

Miranda chuckled. "You're kidding? Why not?"

"I think she had illusions about the 'City of Light' that crumbled once she got here," he chuckled. "I remember it rained a lot when we were here—almost the whole week."

"That can be incredibly romantic," she said, tracing his hand with her finger.

"Not for Cathy," he chuckled, sipping his wine.

"So was the honeymoon a bust?"

"Not at all." He puffed his cigar. "We spent most of the time in the room, as you can imagine."

"I can, but I'd rather not."

He laughed, looking at her.

"How long were you married?"

"Five years, ten months."

"So was it a happy marriage?" She wrapped the blanket tighter around her.

"For the most part, though things got a little rocky at the end."

"Typical of most marriages I think."

"Yes." He set his jaw.

"What made it rocky?" She toyed with the ends of her hair.

"We wanted children."

"You? You wanted children?"

He smiled sadly at her. "Yes." He looked out at the city again. "We were going to wait five years to get established or until we hit age thirty-two, whichever came first. Within a couple years, she had established herself as a cellist with the orchestra. I had established my career at the firm. All was going just as planned. So we began trying to get pregnant. We worked at it diligently, in fact; yet, she wasn't getting pregnant." He sipped his wine and paused, thinking. "After about a year of trying, with no success, she began to panic; we both did. We started going to doctors and discovered she was infertile." He frowned. "Turns out Nature had a very different set of plans for us. It was a devastating blow for both us. She fell into a deep depression that manifested in irritability, moodiness, hyper-sensitivity, anger—deep resentful, bitter anger; it changed her, took the light out of her eyes. I threw myself even deeper into my work, as a result we spent more time apart, which certainly didn't help the relationship." He reflected for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city. "In addition, she got to know me too well. Everything I did, everything I'd say, she'd predict it. With the added depression, she openly made her predictions and they would sometimes sound like accusations or degradations and I began to resent her for it, though I knew she didn't mean anything by it. But worse than that, in making her predictions she robbed me of the originality I so deeply craved, stripped away my identity."

He sighed and grew quiet. Miranda didn't know what to say and felt a little uncomfortable, so she too was quiet. At last he added. "I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for her to want a baby so badly and yet…." He set his jaw. He wavered. "While I may have resented her at the time, admittedly, I have missed her predictions ever since and would give anything to have it all back." He fell silent for a moment and took a drag on his cigar, squinting against the smoke, looking across the city. At last he broke the silence. "But in your knowledge of me is one area where you Cathy are vastly different."

"What do you mean?"

"I suspect you know me better than you let on, but you're more strategic, more political—or maybe just more intuitive—to let on, which proves that on some level you probably know me better than she did."

"How so?"

"Because if she really knew me, she would have known how much I enjoy being unpredictable, original—how intent I was on carving out a truly unique identity."

"Wow, that's quite a… revelation Alan."

"Not really. I suspect you realize that and cater to it." He smiled at her tightly. "Don't worry. I don't hold it against you. In fact, I like you better for it—shows a real sensitivity to my needs."

She chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Good grief! You're so full of it." She playfully slapped his arm. "It's getting cold out here. Let's go in." She stood and entered the room.

He followed after. "I'm being sincere."

"I know you are, and that's what makes you so full of it." She found a fresh bottle of wine in the ice bucket. "Open this please." She handed him the bottle and began running a bubble bath in the Jacuzzi tub.

He picked up the corkscrew from the table top and worked on the cork. At last it popped out. He refilled their glasses and put the bottle back in the ice.

She dropped her robe to the floor and climbed into the tub.

He handed a glass of wine to her, set the wine bucket in the corner of the tub and then climbed into the water with her. They sat quietly for a few moments, sipping wine, enjoying the bubbles and the warm water.

"So what happened to her? If I may ask."

"A skiing accident. At the very end things began looking up again. Her depression seemed to be lifting and we had begun to think about and explore other baby options such as invitro or adoption. So I booked a skiing trip in hopes of rekindling the romance, setting us back on the right path again."

"You ski?"

"Not at all." He chuckled. "I tried, but since I spent more time splayed in the snow than up on my feet, I decided to just spend my time watching her ski."

She chuckled.

"On one run she came down the hill and skidded sideways, which she liked to do because it kicked snow up in my face. I don't know exactly what happened, but when she straightened up she somehow lost her balance and fell. I helped her up and she was rubbing the side of her head. She was laughing and said she was okay. I hadn't seen her laugh in awhile and it made me so happy to see her…" His eyes grew distant. He was in another time, another place. "We went back to the lodge, changed clothes, made some cocoa. She said she was tired and wanted to lie down. I sat in the living room in front of the fire, watching CNN for a while, wrapping up some loose ends on a case. At one point I looked up and it was late in the afternoon, she had been asleep for a few hours. So I went to check on her." He swallowed hard, his eyes tearing up. "She was gone. The knock to her head had caused an aneurism."

Miranda bit her lip, her brows furrowed, she looked down into the water.

"I have never known the vacuum of such utter devastation before or since."

"The vacuum…" Miranda mused. "That's a good way to put it."

He nodded. "Everyone thinks devastation comes in a storm of chaos and explosion and turmoil. But the truth is that the grief becomes a swirling vortex that completely drains you, a vacuum that sucks out the tiniest glimmer of life—like a black hole in space—not even the faintest light escapes. Her death changed me…_profoundly_."

"Of course it did. It's only natural that it should when you love someone so deeply and then suddenly…" She shrugged and sunk deeper into the tub, staring at the bubbles. She said with a sigh, "Your wife, my father…we're a couple of broken people aren't we? Damaged goods."

"Indeed."

"I guess in some ways it makes it easier for us to relate—there's so little to explain; we just…_know_…"

"Yes."

Both of them fell into their own thoughts.

At last Alan broke the silence and said. "You know what I like about you?"

"I can't possibly imagine," she said, tossing her hair back, getting bubbles in her hair.

"You know how to be quiet."

"Pardon?"

He held up a hand. "Hold on, let me explain."

"Please do before I begin to believe the rumors that you're a misogynist."

He turned to her puzzled. "Who says I'm a misogynist?"

"Irrelevant. You were saying?"

"Hm," he said, narrowing his eyes at her, suspiciously. "I'm not a misogynist."

She smiled at him innocently. "I know."

He narrowed his eyes again. "My main point is that you and I can be quiet together as easily and as comfortably as we can talk together…or do …other things together."

"I see."

"When I get quiet, as I am sometimes wont to do, you're comfortable with that. You don't try to push me into conversation. You don't attempt to pry into my thoughts." He paused and sipped his wine, staring into his glass. "That was something Cathy never understood—neither did Tara or Sally for that matter. There was always so much pressure to be always _on_." He looked around the room and noted the mess. "If I grew quiet, they wanted to know why. If I didn't want to talk about it, they wanted to know why. They couldn't understand that I needed a certain amount of space and privacy within _any_ relationship. I've always been that way. I loved Cathy intensely, but sometimes I would…withdraw… into myself…for various reasons." He scoffed. "Or for no reason at all. She equated my withdraw with a loss of love; she accused me of loving her less—which often only made me withdraw more. Tara and Sally were the same way. I don't have that sort of pressure with you. You're incredibly easy to not talk to."

They fell into another easy silence.

He reached over and touched her hand. "You know my favorite time with you?" He smiled warmly.

She suddenly felt exposed. "You don't have to do this, Alan. I'm not fishing for…anything."

"I know," he said, nodding. "I want you to know. Come here." He shifted in the tub and opened his arms to her. She sat between his legs and laid her head back on his shoulder. He stroked her hair and laid his cheek against hers. He said, running his hands over her skin under the water, "My favorite time with you was that night we went to The Oak Room."

She closed her eyes and smiled. "I remember that night."

"I had the lobster."

"I think I had the Kobe beef."

"Yes. And I was in one of my quiet moods. We talked a little, but I recall that I felt no pressure to talk; nor did you push and pry to make me talk. You seemed completely at ease just quietly eating your meal and leaving me to eat mine quietly."

"I was."

"And then," he scooped up water in his hand and poured it over her torso. "You and I went to watch the London Philharmonic—they were in town that week."

"I remember; they were doing a night of Beethoven."

"And you were so excited the day you found out. I remember overhearing you talking to someone on the phone about it."

"And you surprised me with tickets the next day." She put her foot up on the edge of the tub and wiggled her soapy toes.

"I did."

"It was a _wonderful_ surprise."

"And you threw your arms around me and wriggled against me. I just love it when you thank me in that way."

She laughed.

"And we sat through the concert, holding hands." He linked his sudsy fingers with hers. "At one point, I looked over and your eyes were closed, you were so deeply taking in the music, rather passionately, like you were making love with it."

"I was, I suppose," she said dreamily.

He traced a wet finger down her cheek. "Then when the pianist played your favorite…"

She stroked the title as she said it. "_Quasi una Fantasia._"

"I noticed you wipe your eyes. It was almost imperceptible, you did it so quickly, but I've often wondered what you were thinking about that night."

She smiled to herself, but didn't offer up any information.

"And after the concert, we drove home, few words passing between us. I took you to your place, you led me upstairs and we made love in… relative silence."

She chuckled quietly.

"The evening was perfection—much like the other day—serene, calm, peaceful. I didn't have to explain myself; you just accepted me and my mood for what it was and went with the flow."

She nestled deeper against him and released a happy sigh.

He ran his wet hand down her throat. "That was the night I inadvertently broke your pearl necklace."

She nodded. "The sacrifice was worth it, I think."

"So tell me." He kissed her and ran his finger over her clavicle. "What's your favorite memory of me?"

She thought for a moment. "I don't have a _single_ favorite moment—there are so many times I've enjoyed with you."

He chuckled. "An answer deserving of the Clinton name."

"I'm not being political. I just…it's hard to explain, but you're like a prism—every time I look at you I see something different. So I have a favorite sweet moment, a favorite naughty moment, a favorite angry moment, and so on. I count my time with you in moments more than days; it's too hard to pick just one day."

He smiled. "Then what's your favorite moment?"

"Of all of them so far?"

"Yes."

She scooped up bubbles in her hand and toyed with them. "That day at the hospital when you quoted bad Byron poetry to me and said I was your friend. I know how important that word is to you and it meant…" She swallowed hard. "Everything to me—more than if you'd said you loved me."

"And I meant it then and I still do. There's only one other person I truly consider my best friend."

"Denny."

He nodded. "Denny."

Another silence. Finally he said, "Miranda, look at me."

She sat up and turned around to face him. "What I'm about to say isn't easy for me, but I want you to know…" he winced, painfully, "I do love you…"

She smiled nervously. "I love you too, Alan…" she hesitated, "but, you should know, that if it comes down to a choice between love or friendship, I want your friendship more than your love."

He nodded and swallowed. "Same here."

She smiled at him. "You know what my second favorite moment with you is?"

He lifted his eyebrows questioningly. "What's that?"

"The kiss in the rain; it was…so soft, so passionate…so," she took a deep breath "it was like seeing the stars from the mountaintop." She touched his face. "Kiss me like that again."

He leaned in and slowly, gently caressed her mouth with his. He kissed her softly, deeply. When they pulled apart she looked down at her arm and rubbed it. "Goose bumps," she whispered, smiling shyly.

Suddenly he stood, climbed out of the tub and put his robe on.

"Where are you going?"

He held his hand out to her and helped her out of the tub. He wiped her down with a towel and wrapped her robe around her shoulders.

"Come with me," he said quietly, leading her toward the bed. "I'd like to see if there's something else I can do to make you see those stars again."

She giggled.

* * *

Upon their return to Boston, Alan and Denny met on the balcony with their cigars and scotch in hand.

"How was your trip?" Alan said.

"Wonderful, but my ass and penis are sunburned. Spent too much time at the nude beach." Denny's face was burned red but for the white patches around his eyes where his sunglasses had been.

Alan laughed, wincing. "Oh God."

"Have you ever had a sunburned penis?"

"No, but I imagine it can't be a good." Alan laughed until he coughed.

"Burned it on the fifth day. Put a hell of a damper on the sex life."

Alan shook his head, his cigar between his teeth. "You know, there are other things you can do with sex that don't involve your penis."

"Yea, but what about me and my needs?"

"What about taking care of her needs for a change?" Alan looked at him questioningly.

"Only a girl would say something like that." Denny chewed on his cigar.

"You'd be surprised what taking care of her needs will do for your sex life."

"Whatever. I take care of her needs by taking care of mine—two in one."

Alan chuckled, shaking his head.

"I do like putting the aloe gel on it though."

Alan laughed again. "God, I've missed you Denny."

"What didn't you have any fun in Paris?" Denny turned to look at him quizzically.

"It's not that—I had a _fabulous_ time—sort of like being with you, except with way more sex and fewer guns."

"Miranda's a fun girl—a real firecracker."

"She is." Alan sipped his drink and looked out at the Boston skyline, happy to be back in his old, comfy chair, on the balcony with his best friend.

"I bet she's a tiger in bed too," Denny bit into his cigar and growled.

"Nice try."

"Aw, c'mon. Give me something."

"Not her, Denny."

"Why not?"

"There are some girls where it's appropriate to engage in locker room talk; then there are girls, like Miranda, who command your admiration and respect where it is not appropriate to talk about them." He sipped his scotch.

"But we're not in a locker room."

"Nevertheless."

Denny studied him for a moment. "What really went on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're glowing."

Alan shook his head, scoffing, "Don't be ridiculous."

"No, I'm serious, you are. Is that what happens when you take care of the girl's needs? If so, I need to change my game plan."

"In part, I suppose." Alan nodded. "But I'm also ecstatic to be back here with you. So maybe that has caused me to glow, if I am in fact glowing."

"Am I glowing?" Denny sat on the edge of his seat.

"You're more…_radiant._" Alan looked at him evenly.

Denny frowned. "Funny." He sat back again.

Alan laughed, looking at him. "You are so _red._ I didn't think it was possible for human skin to be that color." He shook his head.

"You should see my penis; it's almost purple."

"I'll pass," Alan sipped his scotch.

"What else is going on?"

"What are you talking about?"

"There's just something different…," Denny said, waving his cigar. "I can't pinpoint it, but there's a different air about you."

Alan looked at Denny and hesitated. "If I tell you, do you promise to not get mad?"

"Depends on what it is."

"I told her I loved her this week."

"Who?"

Alan rolled his eyes in frustration. "Miranda."

Denny gasped. "You did what! That's a big deal." Denny turned in his seat.

"Yes." Alan looked at Denny. "I had planned from the beginning that I would do it in Paris."

"Why Paris?"

"Because that's where I had my honeymoon with my first wife."

"Your _first _wife? Is there something else I should know?"

"I mean my late wife."

"Ah," Denny said, wagging his finger, "I caught your fraulein slip."

"You mean Freudian slip."

"Whatever. So you must be thinking marriage if you're making Frankenstein slips."

"Freudian…"

"Whatever," Denny waved his hand impatiently. "Are you going to propose?"

"No!" Alan said shocked, shaking his head emphatically. "Why does it have to automatically mean marriage just because I told her I loved her? Can't I just enjoy being in love for a while? Do you know how long it has taken me to get to this point?"

"Okay! Okay!" Denny said holding up his hands. "Don't get your panties in a wad. I was just asking. Getting married is fun. I love getting married."

"Well, unlike you Denny I don't make a hobby out of marriage rites."

"All right! For a man in love you sure are grouchy!" Denny puffed his cigar and shocked looked at Alan who shook his head, aggravated.

"I'm not grouchy; I just don't want the pressure."

"Fine." He studied Alan for a moment then said, "So you took the girlfriend to the old honeymoon spot?" Denny laughed. "You've either got mad cow or you've got gigantic balls of steel."

Alan chuckled anxiously. "Tough call. I felt I needed to do it though."

"Why?"

"To sort of make a clean slate for myself—to reconcile my past so that I can move forward. I do so want to move forward Denny." Alan said somberly, "I've spent so long grieving…holding on to…memories," he sighed, "that my real life and the real people in it have sort of taken a back seat."

"I always liked sex in the back seat."

Alan looked at him frustrated. "Can you focus Denny for one minute on something other than your penis?"

"Sorry, but my penis is burning, it's all I can think about. Keep going…you're in the back seat."

"Never mind." Alan looked up at the sky, cigar jutting from his mouth.

"No I want to hear it, really." Denny moved to the edge of his seat.

"It's just that when I met Miranda, I…"

"Felt a blood flow."

"There's that."

"Then once I got to know her better, it was like the doors and windows had been thrown open for the first time in a long time. She was a breath of fresh air."

"Like at Nimmo Bay," Denny offered happily.

"Precisely."

Denny sat back in his seat. "So how did she take it when you told her you loved her?"

"Surprisingly well. I thought I would have a heart attack, however."

Denny laughed. "It's always tough, isn't it? Telling women you love them."

"I wouldn't know." He sipped his scotch.

"What do you mean?"

Alan swallowed hard and looked out at the skyline with a trace of panic on his face. "She's only the second woman I've actually said the words to."

"Didn't you love…uh…Tammy?"

"Tara." Alan looked at him. "Yes, but I didn't really tell her. I deflected with 'you smell nice.'"

"Oh." Denny thought for a moment, chewing his cigar. "What about the other?"

"The other what?"

"The other woman you said the words to."

"My late wife." Alan said quietly.

"You forgot someone."

"What do you mean?" Alan looked at him, puzzled.

"You've told me you love me."

"Yes, and?"

"That makes _three_ people you've said it to."

"That's different."

"How?"

"I don't know; it just is. There's something about mixing friendship and sex that changes the relationship—you know that. With you, there's no sex, so things are simpler, less confusing, less terrifying." He looked across the city, thinking. Finally he added. "Miranda said something interesting though."

"What's that?"

"She said that if things came down to a choice between love and friendship, she'd rather have my friendship."

"Huh," Denny said, chewing his cigar, studying Alan.

Confused, Alan turned to Denny. "Have you _ever_ had a woman say that to you?"

"Never."

"I don't know what to make of it."

"Why worry, just go with it." Denny sipped his scotch.

"So let me ask you something?"

"What's that?"

"Are you sure you love her?"

Alan thought for a moment then said, "I do. I've said it to her a hundred times while I watched her sleeping since I was too afraid to say it to her while she was awake."

Denny watched him. "When did you first realize it?"

"Why?"

He waved his cigar in the air. "I'm just curious—want to know."

"I think it began when she went to jail for shooting the boom car, it showed a wonderfully fierce side to her."

Denny laughed. "That was hilarious."

"But it was solidified for me a couple months ago when I took her to see the London Philharmonic performance of Beethoven. During the performance of the _Moonlight Sonata_, I looked over and she was sitting there with her eyes closed, in the deepest of passion, in sheer ecstasy over this sonata—as if she were making love with the music. I think it was in that moment I knew. Her passion, her fierceness, her gentleness, her romantic nature—the juxtaposition of those qualities tease and stimulate me to no end."

"Does she love you back?"

"I think so. She says she does. I suppose I just have to take her word for it."

"Dangerous territory, my friend—exhilarating though—nothing like it in the world."

"Indeed."

Denny puffed his cigar, pensively. "I knew I loved her when I found out she was a belly dancer."

Alan laughed. "There's that."

"She owes me a dance. I never got to dance with her at the ball. You think I can get a lap dance?"

"Keep your lap away from my girl, Denny—besides that would be very painful with a sunburned penis."

"You ready to go?" Denny said, shifting to the edge of his seat.

"I haven't finished my scotch yet. What's the matter?"

"My penis. It's starting to itch now—so is my ass. I can't sit for too long. I need to put on more aloe gel." Denny stood.

"Well, I'm not doing that for you," Alan said, holding up his hand and shaking his head.

"You'd probably like it too much—girl. Maybe Joan's home."

Alan stood and put out his cigar and finished off his scotch.

Denny waited for him at the door and they walked out together.

Alan continued. "Why didn't you put sunscreen on it?"

"I did—this bright yellow stuff."

Alan laughed. "Well?"

"Apparently you have to reapply it when you get out of the water or after a few hours of sun."

"What was the proof?" They gathered up their things.

"30."

"Denny you should have used, like, 80; that's an _extremely _sensitive area."

"Live and learn."

Alan winced. "You know the skin is probably going to peel."

Denny said blankly. "Like a snake shedding its skin."

Alan laughed.

"Sleepover?" Denny pushed the elevator button.

"Sure, as long as you don't expect me to put aloe on your nether regions."

Denny said grouchily, "I don't want you anywhere near my nether regions. Can't I just have you over because I've missed you?"

Surprised, Alan brightened. "You did! You really missed me?" He put his hand to his chest. "I'm so happy to hear that, Denny."

"There you go—getting all weepy and sentimental on me."

"But I haven't seen you all week. Can't you just allow me this moment?"

"Oh, all right."

They stepped into the elevator.

"Can we have s'mores tonight? I've been craving them for a couple days now."

The doors slid shut.

"Sure. I got some great chocolate covered macadamia nuts and Kona coffee beans from Hawaii. We could have those too."

"Sounds great. I brought back some French bon bons."

"Oooh, yummy. I think I might even have Hot Tamales left from our last sleepover."

"Even better."

They stepped out into the lobby and out of the building where Denny's driver held the car door open for them.


End file.
